Bringing Baby Home

The following article originally appeared in the Charlotte Sun-Herald, Waterline Boating Supplement, July 15th, 1999

"Would you like to
take a four day boat trip with us?" some friends asked over a
glass of wine and a great Italian dinner. "We're picking up
our brand new 25 foot Larson Cabrio in St. Augustine and would like
you to join us as we bring it home on the water!"

We know spending four
days on the water in a small boat can be a true test of friendship,
but our friends had lived on a boat for several years and knew what
to expect as well as we did. Since they had lived on a boat, we
assumed they were knowledgeable and safe boaters. We answered an
enthusiastic "Yes! Sounds Great!" and we all started making
out the grocery list.

My wife, Ilse, and I left Port
Charlotte a little after noon on a beautiful, sunny Thursday and
drove down to Cape Coral, about twenty five miles away. We joked on
the way this was only the first leg of an epic journey. In
retrospect, we had no idea! We were looking forward to the trip down
the Intracoastal Waterway to Stuart and then across the 154 mile
Okeechobee Waterway to Ft Myers as we brought their new boat to their
equally new home in Cape Coral. I had never crossed Lake Okeechobee
before, and really anticipated the trip as a great way to see one of
Florida's great waterways. I double checked to see I had film and
batteries for the camera before we left.

Ilse and I drove our
friend, who shall forever be known simply as “our friend,” over
to the Ft Myers airport to pick up a one-way rental car to save time.
She and her husband, who shall be forever known as “our friend's
husband,” and occasionally as "skipper," had rented a van so we would have room for all the
clothes and coolers we were taking on the boat. As it turned out,
the van had far more room than the boat! Our friends' husband was
waiting at the house when we returned so all we had to do was load
the van, lock up the house, and head for I-75. We stopped at a
family buffet restaurant in Lakeland in the late afternoon and we all
ate as if it were our last supper. Probably in anticipation of the
what was on the grocery list, and what we knew would soon be in the
galley. After a bloated ride up I-4 through Orlando during a
beautiful sunset, amid jokes of antacids and overeating, and a short
trip on I-95, we arrived at St. Augustine.

It was well after dark
but that didn't stop us from finding the new boat. It was tied up at
the city marina at the foot of the Bridge of Lions. We looked it
over from the floating dock, but didn't board her. She had her canvas
on and apparently, according to our friend, it wasn't acceptable to
unsnap it and take a look. It was an unspoken protocol, I suppose,
as they hadn't yet received the keys. She didn't have her
registration numbers on her yet either, having only a temporary
registration. We took a short side trip to their old tie-up at the
Conch House and chatted with a few of their old friends. We finally
pulled into the Quality Inn a little after 11:00 pm. My lingering
doubts about his boating skills vanished as we had walked along the
dock where they had lived for two years. We relaxed knowing they had
actually lived on a 43 foot Hatteras.

The motel was spotless,
but we didn't sleep well as a squeaking room air conditioner was
unbearable. We couldn't silence it except for shutting the thing off.
That didn't work as the room got stuffy. Oh well, my wife always has
earplugs (she swears I snore!) so I borrowed an extra pair and turned
the A/C back on. After a Friday morning breakfast at the adjoining
IHOP, I went with our friend's husband to pick up the boat and do a
short sea trial while the wives drove to Daytona airport to turn in
the van. They took a shuttle ride back to the dock and arrived just
as we finished up topping off the 60 gallon fuel tank after our
short, lurching sea trial. The sea trial raised flags I should have
picked up, but somehow in my eagerness to accommodate our friend's
husband, I let them slip by. When our friend's husband treated the
throttle like an on-off switch, almost knocking the salesman over the
seat, I didn't correct him. Neither did the salesman doing the
checkout. He probably thought it would be rude to explain to our
self-proclaimed, experienced seaman that the throttle can be gently
manipulated as well as slammed from one side to the other. If I
hadn't been seated, I probably would have gone over the transom. A
warning sign I stupidly ignored.

It took two
carry-alls to load all the food and bags. We were ready for some
serious cruising. After everyone made their last trip to the
facilities and a final, wide-eyed tour of the new boat, we were
ready. After an awkward castoff, we were on our way down the Intracoastal Waterway on the first leg of our journey. Again, I
chalked up the cast off to first time nerves. Wrong.

The trip to Daytona was uneventful and kind of pretty. In the
beginning, the girls had a field day checking out landscaping and the
foliage. It was fun just getting used to the boat. I took some long
distance photos of the Fort at Matanzas and of the many porpoises
that we saw along the Intracoastal. Porpoises were everywhere.
Weather looked threatening inland, but the clouds soon passed behind
us. Our first leg to Daytona was intentionally planned as a fairly short run in case
of "newboatitis", the common inability to propel a new boat as
anticipated. We had no problems at all except the newly installed
trim tabs didn't seem to keep the boat from leaning terribly to the
left. Fuel economy seemed great and the Larson was running
beautifully.

The Halifax Marina at
Daytona is very nice. We pulled in about 5:30 in the afternoon, and
after refueling, were lead to our overnight berth by the same fellow
that had greeted us at the fuel dock. We followed him as he toodled
along in a small skiff. The marina has security and it is
exceptionally clean. The toilets and showers were great. After
getting cleaned up we walked over to the nearby Chart House
restaurant. Another delicious meal, but I passed on the seafood. So
far the groceries hadn't been opened.

Sleeping on the boat
was a different matter. Our "bunk" was a nightmare. It
was like sleeping in a matchbox. No, more like sleeping under a row
of dining room chairs. We couldn't sit up until we turned sideways,
toward the rear of the boat, and slipped out like toothpaste being
squeezed out of the tube. I had a strange recollection of a Japanese
hotel for busy businessmen where they rent little horizontal tubes,
like honey comb, that you slide into and out of. Scratch Japan. At
least we had a small, clip-on fan that we finally mounted to
dissipate the body heat that builds up in an unventilated, closed
space.

Friday was great, we
were under way by 8:00 AM. Our friend's planning again proved to be
meticulous. She had made all the reservations and coordinated the
entire logistics of the trip, from the rental car to making sure the
spare prop was on board. I told her she would make a great project
manager. She was not impressed, she's already a manager. I asked
her if she had arranged the great weather. With a big smile, she
said, "of course!" Like I said, she's already a manager.

We saw many Manatees,
and, unfortunately, one that was mortally wounded. The gash wounds
were deep and the poor animal was absolutely helpless. They should
make all the boaters who want to speed in Manatee areas clean up the
carcasses. That would slow them down as it is a gruesome,
unforgettable sight. The Inter-coastal Waterway is a busy channel,
with boats of all shapes and sizes, and speed limits would have
little effect with most large boats. Knowing the areas where
manatees favor is a big help, but encounters will still happen. Our
skipper slowed down, just barely staying on a plane. All eyes were on
the channel for the next several miles, but the injured manatee was
the last one we saw.It didn't take long to get back up to speed, so to speak, and we were soon cruising at three-quarters throttle. A big cruiser, probably bigger than the 43 foot Hatteras our "skipper" claimed to have piloted, approached at full speed from the other direction. The oncoming cruiser made no attempt to slow down or alter his course. Its wake was considerably higher than any wave we had yet encountered. Our "skipper" apparently thought he could jump the approaching four-foot bow-wake like a nimble jet ski. Wrong again. Rather than throttle back and turn into the sizable wall of water rushing at us as any experienced boater would have done, our "skipper" simply turned into the wake as the yacht passed and we immediately went airborne at 30 knots, crashing heavily back down with a bone-jarring, frame rattling announcement that our "skipper" was an idiot. We wallowed and bobbed as the engine had died, we were rolling around, dead in the water. We had no electronics! The impact had knocked out the fuse panel! To make matters worse, the impact had twisted the frames of the cabinets below decks and he couldn't open any drawers! They were all jammed. It took twenty minutes or so just to access the tool kit and the spare parts to replace blown fuses and reconnect wires. We never did get one of the main pantry drawers open again. We finally got back under way without any comments from our "skipper," but that was the last time he tried to make the cover of Boating magazine.

We met our only law
enforcement officers at New Smyrna Beach, the strictest section of the
entire trip. We got a friendly wave from the
officers, but other boaters were stopped. Our "skipper" was sweating
not having the registration numbers on the boat, but we had no
problem the whole trip. New Smyrna was also where we saw our one and
only floating hot dog stand! We weren't quite ready for that yet.
Besides, there was the off chance we might have rammed and sunk him.

Floating Hot Dog Stand, Sebastian, FL

The run down to and through Mosquito Lagoon is straightforward, but with many local
boaters in the ramp access areas we had to throttle back and be
careful. The lagoon was flat and wide, and we picked up a steady,
heavy cross wind. The right turn into the Haulover canal seems out
of place in the middle of a long run down the lagoon. Many boaters
were tied up here fishing. Several of the not real bright ones were
anchored right in the middle of the channel. We had an uneventful run
to the Banana River except for some woman in a bowrider that wanted
to follow in our wake's flat zone. She was so close at times we
could see the spaces in her teeth. She had a boat load of kids and
finally passed us when we decided to throttle back and see if she
would go around us. She did.

The Main Assembly
Building at the Cape can been seen across Mosquito Lagoon and you
can't help but want to watch a shuttle launch from the Banana River.
It must be awesome. We trundled on, getting soaked from the spray
that incessantly drenched us once we passed Titusville. We were
running in a moderate chop and the boat seemed to be wetter than it
should have been. We decided to put up the front snap-in weather
screens and plexiglass on the Bimini top, but the "skipper" didn't
really want to soil the new canvas. After a half-hearted, symbolic attempt to put
up the canvas, it was again rolled up and put away and we "sailored
on." By the time we got to Melbourne I was soaked with
salt spray. An uneventful but bumpy ride until we were well out of
sight of the last bridge.

Then we almost ran out
of fuel. We think. The "skipper" had misjudged how much farther we
could have comfortably traveled on our morning fuel top-off. I didn't
really see a problem as we still showed a little better than a 1/4
tank of gas, but it is always better to err on the side of safety, or
even convenience. So we throttled back and went in to our first
"local boaters" marina near Sebastian. I don't know the
name of the place, only that the channel is only four feet deep and the attendant at the fuel pump said he had only worked there for a week.
Another guy playing the guitar in the tiki bar was absolutely alone,
although loud and boisterous customers were gathered around the cash
register in the adjoining restaurant. The attendant at the fuel pump looked like he envied us.
Until he watched us untie and shove off, I'm sure. After flailing
around and narrowly missing the dock and several pilings several
times, we slowly struggled out the shallow channel.

A short time after
leaving the marina, and for the first time since we left Daytona that
morning, I went aft and sat with my wife in the back of the boat.
Our friend sat across from us, leaving her husband alone at the helm
for the first, and as it turned out, last, time. The three of us were
chatting, having a soft drink when the skipper turned violently at
full speed to miss the huge steel frame of an Intercoastal Waterway
marker. We were all thrown to the floor, and as I fell head-first
toward the still pristine fiberglass deck, I glimpsed a huge red
marker as it passed almost directly overhead. Our skipper missed the
red mark in the channel by mere inches while doing 30 mph because he
had been playing with another expensive new toy, a brand new GPS. He
had his head buried in the cockpit instead of watching where he was
going! He was fascinated watching the mark appear on his GPS screen
and it finally dawned on him to look up and see where it actually
was! Our friend's husband saw the mark at the last possible second
and turned VIOLENTLY to miss it. It was the first
time he had been by himself at the wheel while the rest of us
relaxed. We missed being killed or at the least severely injured by
mere inches. The boat would have been destroyed and we would have
been flung against the wreckage like the proverbial rag dolls. None
of us had on life jackets, and I have often reflected on that
incident, perhaps the closest we have ever come to being killed. Our stunned shock soon dissipated and we again began to enjoy still being in one piece.
From then on, nobody left the "skipper" alone. The "skipper" was on his
toes from then on, but so were we. I only spent five or ten minutes
with my wife while we were under way for the next two and a half days
after that incident.

The run through Vero Beach and Ft. Pierce was really
pretty. The water there was a beautiful bright blue, so bright you
think they colored it with dye. The weather was absolutely perfect
and whoever wasn't on watch got to enjoy a beautiful cruise. We
stayed that night at the Marriott Plantation Marina in Port St. Lucie
and ate dinner at the Italian restaurant there. We still
hadn't hit the pantry except for lunch sandwiches. The Plantation
Marina is really nice, but it is geared for bigger boats than our 25
footer. In fact, if "Jack," the skipper of the biggest
Carver I've ever seen, hadn't been a true gentleman and helped our "skipper" bring us in, we would still be there floundering around
between tide and prevailing winds. As we finally tied up and packed away the
loose ends, Jack told us about bringing his beautiful Carver down
from St. Petersburg. He had come through the Okeechobee waterway, the
very trip we were going to undertake for the first time the following
day. The first hand knowledge is always welcome and usually comes
with good tips. One of Jack's tips was to stop in Indiantown for
lunch at the Seminole Country Inn.

We showered and cleaned
up at their facility, which, although not in bad shape, wasn't as
good as the city facility in Daytona Beach. After a tram ride to the
restaurant and a marvelous dinner, it was time to pack it in for the
evening. The young woman we had asked outside the gift shop had told
us it was a short walk to the Italian restaurant which is another
quadrant of the Plantation and not part of the main restaurant. We
would still be walking if not for a cook outside the main restaurant
taking a smoke break. He told us to wait for the tram. He even went
and checked the tram schedule for us. You do meet nice people in
these places sometimes.

My wife and I had a
serious discussion when we got back to the boat, one of those "This
is Really Important!" type chats where the decision has
complicated ramifications. The decision whether to abandon ship and
rent a car to drive home, or stick it out and face the possibility of
a nasty confrontation with our friend and her husband was very
serious. I had asked at dinner how much actual sea time our "skipper" had
piloting his Hatteras. He reluctantly informed us he had only somewhat helped the captain he had hired to bring the boat up from Ft
Lauderdale to St. Augustine! The boat hadn't been out of the dock
since! Not once! I had had about enough of his suffocating ego and dangerous
ineptitude, and wanted to head for home right then and there.
However, after deciding we could keep him under constant watch and
supervision, we would stick it out if for no other reason than to see
our friend get home safely. Sleeping was the same punishment as the
night before, except the boat rolled more. I used my wife's extra
earplugs for the third night in a row.

The St. Lucie River is
the entrance to the Okeechobee waterway, and the first few miles show
off the beauty of the waterfront homes there. We had shoved off at
9:00 am, a little behind schedule as the skipper had wanted to pump
out the holding tank. The poor dock master kept telling the "skipper" there wasn't
anything coming out of the fifteen gallon holding tank, perhaps a
valve was set wrong. Actually, the holding tank was still empty as
everyone was afraid to baptize the new head.

After the first several
bends in the river, and watching a sailboat try to extricate itself
from being out of the channel near the new US 1 bridge, we settled
back into the "who sees what first" mode of communal
navigation. After a few bridges, we began watching for the I-95 and
Florida Turnpike bridges. My family moved to Miami in 1953, so I've
lived in South Florida since I was a kid. I've been over the Thomas
B. Manuel bridge on the Florida Turnpike many, many times. My dad
used to honk the car horn every time we crossed over the bridge
headed south, a celebration of being home again. It was a strangely
exciting to go under it for the first time.

The St. Lucie lock is
the first lock and is several miles upstream. We were the only boat
going west, and after reading the posted signs and giving the
requisite two long and two short blasts, we tried channel 16 on the
VHF radio. Basically a waste of time when the waterway is busy. Just
watch the light next to the lock-masters station. When it flashes
red, stand by and don't run into anybody. By the time the lock
opened and five eastbound boats motored out, we were no longer alone
in the arrival zone. We were first in line and slowly started in
after the light turned green. What a thrill to motor into a dungeon.
A vertical, slimy dungeon.

The Lock-master yelled
down at us from what seemed to be hundreds of feet above us, "Stay
on the port side, do not secure the bow line or the stern line, but
run them under a cleat and pull up the slack as the boat rises."
OK, so far so good. There are many pairs of lines (ropes) hanging
from the rim of the lock. You grab one for the bow and one for the
stern, then take out the slack to keep from floundering around the
lock. The lock is maybe 15 or 20 feet from rim to low water level.
To a sixteen foot runabout it must look like the grand canyon. The
lock starts filling up with boats of all shapes and sizes. We ended
up with a 16 foot runabout directly in front of us, and before the
lock closed, they actually stuffed another sailboat in front of the
runabout. The sailboat, the Phoenix, was flying a German flag. The
skipper was cursing loudly in German, though were weren't sure at
what. My wife is German and is a great translator. She is also very
discreet.

Water pours into the lock at St. Lucie. Between us and the Phoenix is a small outboard runabout.

It is an impressive
sight when they crack open the upstream lock and water starts pouring
in from 13 feet over your head. The Myakka River isn't that deep!
Come to think of it, neither is most of Charlotte Harbor! I didn't
realize the inland water level was that high. When the lock finally
fills and they open the upstream lock all the way, you can actually
hand the lines back to the Lock-master as you are then at eye level.
We got through just fine and were the third boat out into the St.
Lucie Canal. The guy in the runabout, however, was terrified. He
couldn't restart his outboard and he was about to drift into us as he
banged against the wall of the lock. He finally got it started but
his eyes were the size of saucers. I sat on our bow, but didn't need
to fend him off. His wife was actually pale.

The waterway from the
St. Lucie Lock to Indiantown is pretty much an uneventful ditch with
several slight bends. A lot of tugs and construction barges early
on, then some nice homes scattered along the north bank. We docked
at the Indiantown Marina by 1:15 pm and went by van over to the old
railroad hotel, the Seminole Country Inn, and had a delicious brunch.
They pick you up and bring you back to the dock when you are ready
to return to the boat. Just ask at the marina. They'll call the Inn
for you. Delicious, but you had to put up with a smiling, signed
photograph of Burt Reynolds placed conspicuously on the food counter.

We did not fuel up at
the Marina. Our "skipper" had absolute faith in his books and his GPS
and his float plan was cast in concrete. Fuel was to be taken on
only as scheduled. We cast off and headed back to the waterway.
Just after we turned back into the waterway, we met the couple in the
runabout. They had tied to a tree along the bank and were eating
sandwiches. They didn't wave.

The Port Mayaca lock at
the lake was wide open, and we took a straight shot across the lake.
The first mark is on the horizon, but not hard to pick up. It looks
like you're going across the ocean except it is calm and fairly
shallow, running only 12 to 14 feet deep. You can turn left as you
leave the lock instead and hug the perimeter of the lake, but the
weather was great and we chose the straight across channel. Our
"skipper" had me drive the boat for the first time so he could play
with his GPS. I was beginning to think that was the only reason he
bought the boat. After a solid forty five minute run, we entered the
channel that leads to Clewiston. He took over again, and at
Clewiston we turned and went up to the waterway to Moore Haven. From
Clewiston on we had the waterway to ourselves, meeting only two other
boats coming from Moore Haven. One was an airboat that seemed
terribly out of place. We saw alligators and many, many ospreys. The
Melaleuca trees alongside the channel are dead or dying, as are the
Australian pine trees. They are officially nuisance trees in
Florida, and I made a note to see if these trees have died because of
a state eradication process or if this is a natural die off. It
certainly doesn't look natural.

Lake Okeechobee rim canal, the run to Moore Haven

We were the only boat
at the lock at Moore Haven. The channel turns left from the lake rim
and immediately enters the lock. The Lock-master told us we were the
day's 19th lock, joking he had had enough business for one day. He
would have one more as ten miles downstream from the lock we met "Vivian," a
big, red tug boat headed past us for Moore Haven. We couldn't help but
be mesmerized by a group a kids and young adults swimming in the
waterway right after we left the Moore Haven Lock. They had put a stepladder down into the dark, murky
water to get up and down the steep bank. A local sheriff sat with his
car parked alongside the pickup trucks and chatted with the adults
watching the kids swim and have a grand time. Yes, there is still an America out there. Charles
Kuwalt would have been proud.

We had planned to stay
at the Hendry Isles Marina, but after a cursory examination of the
facilities, and not seeing the fuel pump, we decided to travel on to
Labelle. After several minutes back on the waterway however, our
"skipper" again got the grim look on his face and throttled back to
idle. "We're almost out of gas," he said, as he tapped the
gauge with his finger. It was now an hour to sunset. We had between
1/8 and 1/4 of a tank of gas, more than enough for the run to
Labelle. But now worry and dread set in. After the refueling
yesterday, I wasn't concerned. We hadn't taken on a little more than
40 gallons yesterday, so we should have had twenty or so to go. No
matter. Nothing, absolutely nothing, makes boating more fun than two
wives who are scared out of their wits. We motored on slowly, and found we were just around a bend from the Ortona Lock.The Ortona Lock master came
through, as they all did. He told us the next gas was at Port
LaBelle, about five or six miles downstream. He also handed us a copy
of the official waterway guide, a folded handout, listing all the
marinas and dockages. The Ortona Lock was another lock we did alone
and again, without problem. We were getting to be old hands at the
locks. We started off for Port LaBelle with some relief, and of
course, still with some trepidation. Even the cows drinking water
alongside the waterway failed to distract our intense "skipper."

We pulled into the Port
LaBelle anchorage with a sigh of relief. I noticed the gas gauge
still read over 1/8th of a tank. We struggled not to crash into their
fuel dock, it doesn't look like it could withstand much of an impact.
We tied up and looked around the lagoon at the various power boats
and sailboats tied up around the place. Except for the herons and
twenty or so turtles, there were no other signs of life. The gas
pumps were locked, with a sign that says, "We'll be back at 8:00
in the morning." The showers were open, and the sign at the
dock-masters office says, "take time to smell the flowers."
This is the perfect place to do just that. The place is past its
prime, but clean and well lighted. The frogs serenaded us well past
midnight as we finally ate food from our galley. We were the only
people there. There was one other boat at the marina with a light on,
but we hadn't seen any sign of life. We carefully lit citronella
candles and sat outside on the boat free from the mosquitoes. We
watched as the first of the season's thunderheads built up north and
east of us. We saw a beautiful Florida sunset that no artist could
capture. The colors would not be believed if seen on a canvas. This
would be our last night on the boat, and we couldn't have had a
better evening.

We noticed that the
bread was going stale and the lettuce was past eating. Our
refrigerator wasn't set cold enough. We started to feed the many
turtles that swim up to the back of the boat, but a small alligator
immediately joined the turtles and that ended that. We do not feed
alligators as we don't want them hanging around the back door, so to
speak. It also happens to be against the law as well as against good
sense. After dark we sprayed ourselves with one of the new generation
insect repellents. We sat on the back of the boat and played with our
flashlights on the dark water, counting the pairs of orange, fireball
eyes we could see in the lagoon. We counted three pair at one time,
though none very close. The new insect repellents actually smell
nice, instead of like poison or machine oil. The new stuff works
better, too.

We found out the next
morning the marina had a restaurant. In fact, the marina is part of
the OxBow Golf Club. A fellow surprisingly emerged from one the other
nearby boats and stopped to talk to us on his way up the short walk
to the facilities. We walked the short way to the hotel and had
another great buffet breakfast. By the time we got back, the
dock-master was setting up his guitar and his electronic tuning harp
on the screen porch of the office. He said, "just wave when you
want me," and continued tuning his guitar. We waved a few
minutes later, and after a full tank of gas, we were on our way.
From there to the next lock at Franklin is really pretty.
After LaBelle it is more like a real river than a ditch. Most bridges
are no problem, not counting the railroad bridge over in Port Mayaca
if you are in a sailboat with a mast over 49 feet, but there is one
swing bridge that even a canoe would have problems with. Well, a
really BIG canoe with a Bimini top would have trouble. OK, canoes
wouldn't have any problems at all, but we had to put down the canvas
Bimini top. We passed underneath without problem.

"Vivian" is hidden behind the huge barge as she enters Franklin Lock.

Just before we reached
the Franklin Lock, we again met "Vivian". This time she was
headed west toward Ft Myers, going our way, so to speak, but pushing
a 255 foot barge. We passed "Vivian" and one more bend in
the waterway, then had to idle back for the flashing red light at the
lock's arrival point. At first, it seemed to be just another wait for
the lock to clear, with the "skipper" jockeying the boat around a
little bit amid idle jokes and chatter. It was a beautiful morning.
Then the barge slowly emerged around the bend in the river behind us.
"Vivian" was gaining on us as we now waited a little
nervously for a green light. She was looming larger and larger in the
waterway behind us. Soon, "Vivian" and her huge barge were
directly behind us. Our "skipper" began to fidget, he was not happy.

After we realized we
were going through the lock together, I got on the radio and asked
"Vivian's" skipper if he wanted us in front or behind as we
entered the lock. Actually, commercial traffic has right of way, but
the lock-master said we would both fit in the 400 foot lock. The
slow, southern drawl that came back said we could do as we pleased,
but it would probably be better for us in front of the barge. So we
went in first. "Vivian" put a spotter with a radio on the
front bow of the barge. The spotter said they were headed back to
"Nawlins, finally, after seven months here in Florida". He
said mama was gonna be happy.

We were on the
starboard side of the lock, as far up as we could go. The "Vivian"
and her barge stayed on the port side, actually quite a distance
back. It still looked like an aircraft carrier from where we were.
All went as smoothly as we dropped the two feet or so down to the
Caloosahatchee River and the lock-master signaled our departure. As
the lock master opened the gate, a huge fish rolled right in front of
us. I yelled up. "Hey, you got porpoises in here!" He
laughed and yelled back, "No, those are tarpon!"

It isn't far from there
to the familiar red and white smokestacks at the FP&L plant on
the Caloosahatchee River. They'll be gone soon as the plant switches
to a new generator. Boaters were popping up everywhere soon after we
past the I-75 bridges. Traffic was heavy by the time we got to the
Tarpon Point turn off at marker 92. The run through Ft. Myers is
filled with traffic headed out to the gulf, even on a Monday
afternoon. We passed by the Robert E. Lee Motel, where we had spent a
couple of weekends many years ago while our daughter sailed in the
Florida State Pram championships, the old COPCA, Clearwater Optimist
Pram Class Association, series. The regattas were held in the river
just behind the motel. The river was quieter then. There were many
state regattas over at the Lani Kai on Ft Myers Beach, too, but those
days are also past. I couldn't help but muse there were no more
bridges to the gulf after the US 41 bridge then.

We got to the house at
Cape Coral by 12:30 PM without a major mutiny or serious grounding,
although I pulled a boner by not finding a mark after we passed the
US 41 bridge. No problem, just a course correction that needed to be
implemented prudently and efficiently. After finding the right canal,
and slowly idling under the low bridges that dot Cape Coral, we
pulled up right behind the house. A small round of applause and after
the bath room breaks, a glass of iced tea and lunch. We unloaded the
boat and prepared to take it over to it's berth at a nearby Marina

The last part of the
adventure was without doubt the most dangerous. The skipper and I
took the new boat from Cape Coral to a marina on Ft Myers Beach.
Idiots crossed our bow by a few feet under full throttle with
complete disregard for right of way. Many, if not most, boaters
showed absolutely no regard for safety, much less courtesy. From off
shore racing catamarans cutting channel markers to flats boats
running through sailboats, it didn't take me long to see this area is
just like Biscayne Bay in Miami, perhaps worse. I was glad to get out
of the area. It was a good feeling to finally tie up at the marina
and see the wives waiting on the dock. While we were loading the car,
we heard a marina employee tell a new boat owner, "Oh, you don't
need any boat courses! Just remember right on red returning and
you'll be just fine." We finished packing in silence. I couldn't help but think our "skipper" would be right at home here.

The boat got good
performance marks, but I couldn't honestly give any credit for
comfort. With only one seat to see forward, (not everybody wants to
rub knees with the Skipper) and being far wetter than I thought she
should be, it wasn't much fun to ride in other than in absolutely
flat seas. But I didn't buy the boat, and I'm sure the new owner was
thrilled with the new "Baby."

I had been standing in
the hatch well for the last two days, field glasses and charts in
hand. It was the only way I could stand "watch." My wife
saw only what was visible from the side or over the stern, and rarely
got to look over the front of the boat. Personally, I think it is a
great lake boat, but then, I don't think much of many of the new
designs.

How did our friendship
stand the trip? Well, we all need a break, but we won't be taking any
more boat trips with them. We talked on the phone last Friday, we've all
got our photos back. We may get together next week, have dinner and
swap photos... maybe.

Right now we are still
catching up on sleeping with our legs stretched out.